King Jason
by shortpeopleproblems
Summary: A princess plots her whole childhood to find a way to prove that her younger brother is not fit to rule the throne. Will she succeed? Not a vampire story. Sorry.


King Jason

When you were twelve years old, your younger brother Jason disappeared. He was four years younger than you and had already accomplished far more than you had. He had this gracefulness, this understand of other human beings, which seemed to be a shortcoming of yours. When your family dragged both of you to yet another dinner party, one of the ones with three sets of silverware and at least five different types of forks lining the elegant gold and floral patterned dishes, people would remark, "Oh what a well behaved young man!" Your mother would dress the two of you up, Jason in expensive crisp silk shirts in a plethora of colors (with matching tie included), and you were allowed to wear the same plain black dress and ripped stockings every time. Mother said it made you quieter and less noticeable. She would spend hours ironing, hemming, and starching Jason's pants, and then tell you to hand-wash that squash soup-esque stain by yourself, all while shooing you out of the impeccably tidy sitting room of heavy embroidered rugs and thick patterned glass lamps.

You were not allowed to step on the rugs; mother said that you would dull them of their original sheen. Jason was allowed to enter the sitting room, because this was where the sideboard piano was kept, the one that was over a hundred years old with ivory keys and original unreplaced strings, so that he could bestow his classic pianist skills upon his parents and any potential visitors.

Often your grandparents visited from a mansion far away, a place where you imagined there to be even more visible wealth and glamor than in your own home, which in and of itself was dripping with mahogany and expensive fabrics, but lacked any of the warmth of a real home. People always said that your home was a little unwelcoming, but that Jason himself made up the grandeur of it. He seemed not to be an eight year old, but someone far older. People would often remark to your mother that although in the history of Aardowen, the royal lineage was supposed to pass to the eldest child and not the son, that they thought Jason was better suited to be a ruler than you.

At least externally, Jason was perfect in every way. Which was why you spent your whole childhood drastically searching for any possible flaw that your younger brother could have, but instead ended up finding your own. Whenever your entire family had to attend a formal event, press conference, or Hearing of the Powers, you would bring on the fire, misbehavior, and practical jokes in an attempt to get your brother to crack. He never smile unless it was in a way that he had been taught to smile. He smiled warmly and with his pristine white teeth only for cameras, guests, or large audiences of people. People loved his smile. He had all of his tiny but straight baby teeth, and knew how to flash them in an equally jovial and professional manner.

They tried to teach you "The Smile of the People" when you were slightly younger than Jason, your mother hired you a behavioral coach and everything, but it never stuck. Your coach's name was Mark, and he had coached generations of pageant brats and royal children alike. You were one of few cases he was never able to crack. He was kind but strict, and wore his curly blond hair pin-straight and slicked back with hair spray in a professional bun. The only reason you knew that he had curly hair at all was because when you really frustrated him, some of the looser curls around the edges of his face would come free, sproinging back into their natural place. He always wore business gray pants and a matching sport coat with a plain white button-up under it.

The jacket would usually only last for about five minutes before you sprinted off into the halls, taking corners too fast and rolling under shelves and bookcases which led to secret passages throughout the house. He would scream at you for hours to come back, begging and pleading on behalf of her employment for you to behave. You only felt slightly bad once or twice. You would hide in one of your favorite passages, the one that led from the kitchen with all of the good snacks to the bright and airy sunroom that doubled as a playroom. The sunroom was the only room in the house with any real light or color, which was why you liked this room the best. The walls were a soft lavender, and one entire wall was made up of huge arched windows that looked out over an olympic sized pool, ever-blossoming gardens, and two tennis courts.

If Mark somehow thought to look in the sunroom, you would duck back into the passage where you had made a reading nook for yourself complete with a nest of pillows and blankets, and lay there silently, reading for hours on end. If you got hungry, you could pop over to the kitchen for the housestaff, make yourself a hot chocolate with the Nespresso machine and a croissant warm from the oven, and then curl back up in your hiding spot to wait out Mark's eventual departure. He never really succeeded in teaching you a thing about etiquette or manners, which was a point of pride for you in your youth. You were not your mother's puppet, and if you were ever going to run a kingdom, you were going to do it your way.

This was exactly why you decided that Jason had to go. With his bleach blonde hair in a respectable combover, flawless manners, perfect clothes, trustworthy smile and aryan race blue eyes, you did not stand a chance at ruling Aardowen the way you wanted to. You smiled often, but no one liked your gappy smile where your adult teeth hadn't grown in all the way yet, or your ratty brown hair that was the color of both of your parents', but was not lustrous and well-kept like theirs. Your father kept a lavish but well-trimmed beard and a very stylish Elvis-type haircut, while your mother kept hers in a low braided bun swung always to the left side of her neck which took her personal maids hours to prepare perfectly each day so that not a single hair was out of place. Your kept yours long and flat and straight and rarely ever let anyone brush it or style it. You don't think you ever got a haircut as a child. You were far from your perfect family members, but you knew that if you could find a way to take down your little brother, you could make a fierce and well-loved ruler like no one had ever seen before in Aardowen.

You figured out early on that your brother did not have a temper, so you would not be able to beat him by provoking him to extreme anger. He was tall for his age, and physically fit (but not threateningly so) from his mandatory swimming, tennis, and horseback riding lessons; this meant that you could not beat him in a sibling brawl. That meant only that you could end him by discovering something horrible about him and feeding it to the press so that the people would turn against him before the time you turned sixteen, the age of royal coronation. When you were still only nine years old and under the care of Mark, you began your search for incriminating evidence against your brother that would somehow take away his right to be king before you were skipped over in the coronation line.

But what could Jason possibly have that would make him ineligible for kingship? He could read effortlessly, wrote cursive in a gentle hand with a ballpoint pen and ink like a true royal, could schmooze better than any American TV politician, was versed in the basic requirements of every royal such as music, The Handshake, and table manners, and had been dressing the part practically since the day he was born. There was nothing that he was bad at, or even mediocre at, except for being a kid, which in royal culture was not something that he could be faulted for. All royals (or at least most) were forced to forego their childhoods and grow up fast.

When you were very small, small enough that Jason wasn't around yet, your mother sometimes invited over other royal families from neighboring kingdoms so that you could play with their children. Play was not quite the word. Two or three other royal children would come over, and you would bring out your My Little Ponies and their best outfits to show them off and engage with the other children. You never forgot that one little prince named Henry who was two years older than you had asked,

"Why is that statue plastic? And why isn't it in a glass case to protect it?"

You had explained that it was a toy, and it was yours, so you could do whatever you wanted with it. He seemed shocked. To prove your point, you had torn the head right off of your least treasured of the ponies, Mr. Sparkle Toes. The other two children, both girls whose names you could not remember, had stared on in horror. Henry had gotten up and run to the adults in the middle of their meal, telling them that I had torn the head right off a statue. Mother came dashing in and found you with the beheaded My Little Pony in your hand and scolded you for scaring the other children. After, you had heard her apologizing profusely to the other royal parents, telling them that she had made the mistake of buying you toys in hopes that it would help you have at least a little bit of a childhood. She claimed it was a mistake to let you have them and that she would call a maid to take them all away from you the second the guests left. That maid never came for your toys, but mother never looked at you the same way again, either.

When you were five and Jason was one, he had sat in his high chair in the big family kitchen, eating stewed carrots and mush with a silver spoon from the center of his tray.

"Jay-jay, can I help you? Can you show me a big smile and and nom those carrots like a jet?" you'd said.

He'd looked you deadpan in the face and said, "NO". Then continued spooning food into his mouth without a smile on his face.

When you were just seven, Jason had started his lessons with Mark. Jason was a prodigy, and so Mark loved him. Jason could complete almost any task perfectly on the first try, and never ran, hid from, or fought Mark's efforts to teach him. You would sit on the white suede couch in the sunroom and watch Jason's lessons across the hall, all while playing with your ipad with one hand and alternately eating Cheetos and wiping them on the couch with the other. You didn't like how spotless the couch was. Or any of the furniture in the house, for that matter. It all felt far too unlived in to you.

Around this same time, you had made friends with the daughter of one of the housemaids. Her name was Samantha, but she thought it was too girly, so she told you to call her Sammie. She was about your age, maybe a year older, but she was the first and only real friend you ever had. While Jason was proving himself a God in lessons with Mark, you and Sammie would sneak out of the palace through the gardens to her family's cottage, which sat many acres back on your family's land. Her house was really a home. It always smelled of warm bread and beef stew, and her Aunt Melinda who lived with them would let the two of you watch cartoons on Disney channel and Cartoon Network. You always thought Scooby-Doo was the best. At home, the only TV channels you were allowed to watch were BBC and that American channel ABC Family, which was kind of interesting but wasn't cartoons like you were allowed to watch at Sammie's home. During your TV time, the two of you would plot ways to get your brother; Sammie didn't like him either. She said he smelled too clean to really be a real boy. You agreed.

"What if he's really a robot?" she'd cackled one day. You too, thought this was hilarious, and the two of you spent the rest of the afternoon rolling around on the thick family room rug in stitches. You loved this rug because it should have been white, but was now off-white from generations of feet, snacks, pets, and love. You remember that rug. It's no longer there to this day, but you and Sammie are still best friends, despite all that happened during your first twelve ruckus childhood years.

On one of these kind of afternoons with Sammie all those years ago, you were probably about eleven, you had padded down to her cottage and she had flung open the door before you were even 25 yards away.

"Charlene HURRY UP I'VE GOT BIG NEWS!" she had shouted from the bottom of the lush, rolling green hill that began just past the gardens. You sprinted the rest of the way to her door, where Sammie had pulled you inside and shut the door lightning fast. You told her to go on, and the words that she next spoke changed your life and the royal future of Aardowen forever.

"I think your brother is only half related to you."

"What are you talking about?" you'd said.

She went on to explain that while dusting in one of the hallways this morning, she'd overheard Mark on the phone with someone, maybe a personal planner or something, saying that he wasn't going to be able to make it to an appointment for a royal in another town over tomorrow because he was going to be with his son, celebrating his eighth birthday.

Tomorrow, you knew, was Jason's eighth birthday. Could it be? Was Jason really only your half brother? Had your mother cheated on your father? It would explain why Jason's hair was blonde and the rest of the family had the same coffee-with-milk brown hair. And the strange ice blue eyes that your parents had always joked came through genetically because of a distant cousin on your mother's side.

"Why tell me this?" you'd asked.

"Do you still want to take down Jason, Char?" You had nodded.

"Then as only a half royal, and in a scandal, this knocks him out of line to be a potential king. Only full-blooded royals can rule, right?"

Your best friend was absolutely correct. And now what would you do? Of course you'd tell the press!...Right?

"Let's call now! Get the story out there!" Before you had time to even breathe, Sammie had picked up the house phone and dialed the number of the local paper.

"Hi this is an anonymous source, you may want to get the prince and princess to take a DNA test, the prince may not be a real royal. Okay thanks bye!" She'd hung up.

You'd asked her what she'd done that for. You might not be a full-blooded royal too, and if that were the case, you'd both be in trouble. The whole family would be. You didn't know what was going to happen, or how to feel about it, really. You thought you had always wanted to take your brother down. Claim what was rightly yours. But this did not feel like doing it the fair way. But there was nothing you could do. All that was left was to wait.

Sure enough a few hours later, two guards came to the front door of your family's house escorting a reporter and a doctor with them. The reporter was young, less than a decade older than you, with well-worn but shiny brown shoes, a pair of khaki pants that were a little too short, and thick orange plastic glasses that he put up on his head, back on his nose, then up to just above his oily, acne-covered forehead again. The doctor was much older and balding, with a monocle that doubled as his device to look in ears, eyes and noses. Your butler had opened the door. At the disturbance, your mother had come from the dining room where she had been inspecting the table setup for your brother's birthday tomorrow.

At the explanation of their visit, your mother had turned white as a sheet, and then tried to dismiss the DNA crew on account of their visit being ludicrous and interrupting very important royal matters. The reporter had stood firm, saying that if she sent him away, it would not look good on the royal family, and that more reporters and doctors would come until all members submitted to being tested. He test was quick and painless, he had explained. All we had to do was spit into a tube. The saliva would be processed in minutes by the doctor with a special light in his bag. After that, we would know for sure that we were all related.

Mother had continued to refuse. Finally at the commotion, father had come into the front entrance out of his office. You never knew what went on in there. He said it was just boring paperwork, but sometimes you wondered if he was ordering the death of rebels, or the start of a war. Or maybe he was just playing sudoku, you were never sure.

"What is this about?" He'd asked. The story was explained again. Your father was a large man, but a sweet and effective king. He ruled with the right balance of strength and understanding. As such, he had no problem asserting his power in this situation.

"You are bothering my wife" your mother smiled at this.

"Let us compromise, and do the DNA test, but do it rapidly so that we may get back to our lives and that this silly story may be quenched." Your mother blinked, clearly taken aback by this statement.

"Excellent!" the reporter had said. Your mother tentatively called Jason into the room. The doctor had handed each of you a tube. You spit into it a couple of times, then examined your saliva. This would determine if you or your brother were ever legally allowed to rule your kingdom. You had handed the vial back to the doctor quickly. Your father had returned his next. Then Jason had handed his over, obviously very confused. Your mother had tentatively handed hers over last. There was very little saliva in the container.

"This will only take ten minutes to process" this was the doctor, then he had bustled out of the room to find a work space.

Jason had come over to you, still straight-faced as usual.

"What's going on?" he'd asked you.

"You may not be allowed to be king" You'd told him. He parted his lips for only a moment, as if for the first time in his life, something was surprising to him. Just as fast, he'd shut them. You had looked up, seen your mother and father staring at each other, eyes locked, expressions unreadable. You closed your fist, opened them, closed them again, opened them and examined your palms. They were sweaty and clammy.

Suddenly, a timer rang somewhere in another room. Seconds later, the doctor came bustling back in.

"Well, good news for you and bad news for the press, your highnesses. Both of your children are 100% legitimate" he clapped the reporter on the shoulder, who looked gloomy.

'Better luck next time, James old boy. Check your sources better next time." The two men headed out.

The four of you stood still, taking the news in. You, your father, and your mother looked at each other. Jason's eyes stayed on the ground. Your mother tittered out a semi-nervous laugh of relief. Your father turned and headed back to his study without another word, still deep in thought about something.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, with lessons and the normalities of hiding from Mark. You watched him complete Jason's lesson for the day on how to properly propose to his bride some day. Jason nodded methodically. As Mark was packing up, your heard him remark to Jason that there would be no lesson tomorrow, for it was his son Timmy's eighth birthday, and he was taking him to a baseball game. He'd love for Jason to meet Timmy sometime. Jason monotonously told him that it would be splendid to meet his biological son.

That night, you had lay in your canopy bed, unable to sleep. You had meandered over to Jason's wing of the house, looking for company. When you pushed his door open, he was laying on his bed on top of his mountain of expensive comforters, staring at the ceiling with all of the lights on, unblinking. He turned his head to the left when you came in, and you heard a *crack*. His muscles were always popping and cracking.

"I wonder what it's like in the stars" he'd said.

"I dunno, Mr. Soon-To-Be-King, why don't you find out?"

For the first time in his life, Jason smiled. Not a fake smile, a real one of pure jubilation and excitement. Just as quickly as it was there, the smile was replaced with a flat line, and he had rolled over on his stomach and proceeded to snore softly within seconds. You had headed back to your bed still feeling restless, but managing to find sleep.

The next morning, the morning of Jason's eighth birthday, you had awoke to screaming. Jason was gone. None of his clothes were taken, his blue satin pajamas from last night lay neat and stiff on his bed, every shoulder and sleeve lined up methodically. His room reeked of motor oil. On his nightstand sat a wig, a perfect replica of his perfect hair.


End file.
